There is no tragedy in that
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: 'Remember that you were always loved by me and that you made my life happy again. I wish I could explain. I promise, I am doing this for you. Only you. I am unashamed to say that I love you, John. There is no tragedy in that.' Richenbach is here. Sherlock has to confront his feelings for John, before Moriarty takes them away. WARNING: Major character 'death' and angst like WHOA!


I look at John.

He is flushed, his cheeks sporting a bright shade of red; he hasn't been chasing any criminals around London, however he has just finished a blog post about The Blind Banker. Which, he is telling me now, was our best to date.

I nod and smile; it was a simple case really, an elementary child could do it.

However, John was still bothering to write it, to make me look like the hero once again, and not even writing himself close to what he had actually been like (which was much, much more helpful than he liked to make out). He is one of the most extraordinary people I have ever met. Actually, scratch that- he _is _the most extraordinary human that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.

My heart flutters a little bit at the expression on his face. John holds his lip between his teeth in concentration, his brow is furrowed and his blond hair stuck up from where he had run his hands through it.

He notices me staring rudely. 'You okay?'

I snap out of it as fast as I had sunken in. I blink and smile. 'Sorry, what?'

'Oh… nothing. You just look a bit strange, that's all.'

John starts to laugh, and I can't help but join him. John is shaking his head.

'My God, you great buffoon, I love you. You're sometimes so insane you're a menace to public health. _My _health.

My ears had shut off. '_I love you.' _I think I had lost the ability to speak.

'John, I-'

The butterflies were suddenly killed like a gunshot to the head. I felt crashing disappointment in my stomach.

It was said in jest. John Watson would never know.

I love him. _Really _love him- I don't think I have ever felt this way before. I don't just like having him around; I _need_ him around. I cannot function properly without him…. We have almost, in a way, become a hybrid. John-and-Sherlock; Sherlock-and-John. You never have one without the other.

_**But**_ John wasn't gay. John had been with Sarah up until quite recently. And besides, what could_ he_ see in _me?_ We're two opposite ends of a very extreme scale- he is beautiful, amazing, kind add any adjective there, go ahead. No word in the English language could describe him; there simply isn't a word for just how amazing he is.

And I am cruel, heartless, twisted and a very broken man. Just a year ago I was claiming to be asexual. Well, that's gone down the drain; I am most defiantly not asexual, or for that matter straight nor gay, because I love John. Only John. I have never liked another man, so I don't think that defines gay; gay is loving the majority of men just like straight ones love women.

I love John Watson. Only _ever_ John Watson.

'Lock, you okay?'

I snap out of my daze and look at the sapphire blue eyes that are watching me back. I suddenly realise I have tears in my eyes. Oops. I blink back furiously, my cheeks flushing, but John ignores it.

He laughs, closes the lid of the laptop down, before stretching in his armchair.

'Hmph. Wanna cuppa?'

I nod, unable to say anything. I draw my coat closer around myself as John gets up and pads to the kitchen.

My phone suddenly buzzes, and I am up upon it like a hunter on prey. A distraction is a welcome relief to this beautiful nightmare.

The text is from Moriarty. My heart pounds in excitement. My fingers are shaking as I open it.

_I expect to see you on the roof, Sherlock. Soon, very soon. Don't worry though; Johnny-boy will be safe with me, unless you fall. Down. Down! DOWN! ;) No worries, my dear; falling is just like flying, but with a more permanent destination. -JM_

I frown, confused. I glance in the kitchen- John remains unaware.

A second text buzzes through.

_I want to play a game. In a few days, John, Lestrade and darling Mrs Hudson will be in danger. You have three friends- __**I**__ have three snipers. Unless you can admit, unless you can fall like humpty dumpty and shatter into a million p__ieces, I will tell them to shoot. What is a brain, without its heart, hmm? You will be nothing. I look forward to it-JM_

A clink from the kitchen; John is making tea._  
_John.

Realisation suddenly dawns, sucking all the happiness away from where I sit. It is replaced with a cloud, hanging grey and threatening above my head.

No, not John. I can't leave John. _I can't,_ _**I can't, I CAN'T….**_

But why?

I know the answer. I have admitted it to everyone but him.

My heart sinks; Jim now knows. My weakness, I mean; my one and only weakness, which he will exploit until I crumble.

'_I will burn the heart out of you.'_

So that is what the demented Irishman meant. He could see, even then, even before I had admitted it to myself.

I do not doubt him. He will do either one of two solutions.

_**Solution one:**_ Destroy me, until my reputation and career is ruined, and I am no longer Sherlock Holmes, the magnificent web-detective, but a urn full of ash on the mantle piece.

_**Solution two:**_ He will kill John. By doing that, he will have destroyed my soul beyond repair. All you would see is a shell, a shadow of the former Sherlock Holmes.

Knowing Jim as I do, he loves to get things over and done with ASAP. That means I have only a few days left until I die.

Can this man read my bloody mind? Another text buzzes through. _Meet me at 6Pm__ tomorrow__, Barts roof__. Can wait, love. ;) -JM _

I am going to die tomorrow. This is surprisingly okay- I can live with it. I don't mind- everyone has to meet their end one day, after all- and I expected it to come at a reasonably young age.

I remember a good plan cooked up by Mycroft years ago; he was paranoid that this would happen. I just jump and he takes care of the rest. I do not die, but I leave everything behind and go into hiding. I flip open my phone and text him.

_Jim is meeting me on Barts roof tomorrow at 6PM. I am 'jumping'. You take care of the rest. –SH_

**Brother, will your reputation survive? –M**

_I don't care. –SH_

**And what about John? You cannot leave him. –M**

_I have to. I don't want to, but I must keep him safe. –SH_

**Hm. Brother dear, sentiment doesn't suit you. –M**

_Fuck off. -SH_

* * *

John knows something is very wrong. I haven't told him.

I have this impulse. I thought I got rid of these disgustingly human feelings and needs years ago, but they have only risen to the surface, red and raw.

I hate it. I hate him. Why does he have to be so smart, but so stupid? So kind, but so mean? He has stolen my heart without permission. Now I am about to break his. He will be left to try and glue the shattered pieces back together; while we are not in a romantic relationship, I am his best friend. His rock. His flat share. His other half.

But if I don't do this one thing, I will be filled with regret. There is one thing I must do. Just one.

I get up, and walk calmly to the kitchen. John turns and smiles at me; my heart, which I have claimed not to have all these years, is melting inside my chest.

I am aware I am in his personal space. John doesn't seem to mind. His attention is back to whatever is on the stove.

I suddenly hold his face in my gloved hands, analysing his face for a second. He looks shocked, his blue eyes wide, but so were his pupils. I could feel the doctors heartbeat underneath my palms start to thrum faster, and with it, mine did too.

I close the short, but infinite distance between us.

The feeling is incredible. I can feel his warm lips on mine, slightly open in surprise, before he regains control. John is shy at first (can this man get any more adorable?) his arms tentivly reaching up to cup my neck as I his waist, before he becomes more confident. John raises his delicate, war-rough hands to gently grip my ebony hair, as mine tighten on his jumper. Our noses rub together slightly together.

I feel like I am under water. Everything, the whole bloody time space continuum has seriously slowed down.

I don't think John could believe it either, but in a way it felt so right. I am the brain- the cold, machine, constantly working- and John is the heart- always feeling, beating, alive. Both couldn't exist without each other... it would be impossible.

John let out a huff of air and pulled me as close as we could get, softly nipping and biting; I loved the biting. The biting was incredible.

Suddenly the kiss became deeper. John's tongue grazes against my lips, silently asking for permission. I give it to him, and as his skilled tongue darts through my lips I am so glad I did. The feeling was fantastic.

Both of us men felt the firy passion, the hunger of the kiss start to grow more and more until it was almost unbearable, until the nips become full on bites and it becomes less of a kiss, more a crushing-of-lips.

John parted, panting for air, and entangled his fingers in my dark hair.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

We both smile. John takes my hand.

* * *

I wake up early, as I always did. The sun hadn't even rose yet, and the sky was still aglitter with thousands of stars and a silvery moon.

Last nights events run through my mind, before I realise where I am, and who is next to me.

John looks very peaceful in the moonlight. Probably as peaceful as I have ever seen him.

However, something deep in my psyche panged as I realised just what I had done.

I could see how deeply this would ruin me, how it would ruin _him._

I didn't just know because I know I am seriously in love this man. I know this because, when I woke, my hand had been on John's chest, exactly over his heart.

Oh God, what have I got myself into?

* * *

I stay like this for a few hours. My phone predictably buzzes.

_I love this- better than Eastenders, darling. ;) -JM _

I come to terms with the daunting fact that today is the day I'm going to leave John. Possibly forever.

Tears suddenly burn my cheeks; this was so unfair. Why me? Why him?

I write a note. Cliché, yes, but I need to get it out before I go mad. Before I can no longer say the things I need to say; before it is too late.

I begrudgingly leave his side to get some paper. My hand hovers over the paper and I begin to cry. I hold my head in my hands as silent sobs wrack my frame, before I bury my head in the space between John's shoulder and jaw. I cling tight to him, much like a limpet, and I rock backwards and forwards. I don't wipe away the tears; that would be more pathetic than actually crying.

Once I regain my composure, I write:

_John,_

_Remember that you were always loved by me and that you made my life beautiful again. You made it have purpose. You made it happy._

_I wish I could explain. I promise, I am doing this for you. Only you._

_When I am no longer here, I give you my heart. Keep it safe for me, please._

_I am unashamed to say that I love you- only you, John. As much as I say caring isn't an advantage, there is no tragedy in that._

_-SH_

I fold it twice and write 'John' on the top. I place it on the violin. You wouldn't really see it unless you were looking.

I look at his sleeping form, oblivious. I brush the hair out of John's eyes, crying again, the tears spilling fresh and hot over my cheeks. I have found I do not care.

I am devastated.

* * *

I shut down. I act as if John is a stranger, not the man I willingly gave myself to last night.

If I block him out, then it will lessen the pain. Well, that's the plan, anyway. John still doesn't know what I am about to do- but Molly notices what's wrong. But I brushed her off. Why, I don't know- but I have done it so much so that she thinks she doesn't count. My god, she does. More so than I care to admit; I realise what a twat I've been.

I wait for her. She is about to leave when I speak from inside the cloak of darkness.

'You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay.' I whisper. She jumps before turning, her brown hair messy and her kind eyes glinting. Pain stabs through me at what I'm about to do.

She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. 'Tell me what's wrong.'

I gulp, trying to blink back tears. 'Molly, I think I'm going to die.'

'What do you need?'

Her kind heart never fails to overwhelm me. Why, after I have been so horrible to her, she is willing to lend me a hand? I must give her the full truth. She deserves it, to say the least.

'If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?'

'What do you need?' She asks again.

'You.'

* * *

John looks devastated. I haven't told him what I was going to do, oh no. I've simply been ignoring him for most of the day, to try and make the blow easier. He has just got off of the phone.

'Mrs Hudson has been shot.'

Terror stabs through me. Earlier I had received a text ('_Come and play, Sherlie. Roof -JM x') _but I had chosen to ignore it. It seemed that Jim was true to his word. I try and keep my face neutral.

'You coming?'

'Coming for what?' _caring isn't an advantage. Try to be a dick, make him hate you for what you are doing to him._

'Mrs Hudson!'

I shrug, no matter what else I would like to be doing. Like comforting John. 'No. Why would I?'

His face crumbles, before hardening. He grabs his coat.

'Sod this.' He snarls at me. 'You stay here… if you want, on your own.'

The final insult. _Make him hate you, Sherlock. You don't de__se__rve him._

I take a deep breath. 'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.'

John looks dumbstruck for a moment, his face still hard. 'No, Sherlock. Friends protect people.'

He strides across the room, but pauses at the door. He doesn't want to go.

I can see his face crumble when he thinks the door hides it, just before it snaps shut. John thinks I do not love him. He has seen me for what I really am.

I have made him cry. I have made John Hamish Watson, my soldier, my lover, my best friend, cry; I feel so sorry.

I close my eyes and process my thoughts.

'I'm sorry, John.' I say it out loud, hoping that he was listening, even though I know he has probably already hailed a cab by now. 'I'm sorry for everything. I love you.'

* * *

I am breathing heavily. I can see John, a little speck on the ground, looking up, the phone to his ear.

_Friends protect people. This is what I am doing. For you. I am your friend, and I am protecting you._

I don't say it, but I think he knows. He always knows. Nothing I can say will ever be this important again, nor carry as much meaning.

So I sum it up in the simplest way I can.

'Goodbye John.'


End file.
